


Satan Met a Lady

by 78424325



Series: Noir Emblem [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cold War, Film Noir, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78424325/pseuds/78424325
Summary: She wears her smile proudly, speaks her mind proudly, and dances proudly.After all, men are easy.





	Satan Met a Lady

She wore her smile proudly.

 

Red-blood colored lips captivated the anticipating audience as her arms moved to grip on the pole.  Before too long, drum music started to hammer, and she made a small jump before entangling herself with the metal shaft.

Audience gasped and cheered as her body curved around the pole. Throwing yet another fiercely confident smile, she positioned herself horizontally on the pole, swaying her body before sharply dropping it as her legs clamped the metal in a scissor shape.

“Gods,” from the stage she could hear someone gasping, and tracing the room with her eyes she found a man sitting straight with his jaw dropping to the ground.

She grinned. Her pupils dilated as her smile blossomed wider. Her male audience were often times were predictable, and she knew she practically had them in her palms the moment she hopped to use the pole.

Regardless, a performance was a performance, and she kept twisting and turning against the pole as the music progressed to get livelier and merrier. As expected, her performance ended with thunderous applause, with many people giving her standing ovation and men taking off their hats for her.

“Thank you!” she pursed her lips, blowing a kiss at the crowd who welcomed it like thirsty travelers who just found an oasis. Descending the stage, she patiently took on people who gathered for a chit-chat and handshakes. Some would hand her flowers. Some others had to fight among themselves just so they could be the closest to the stage, among the people she would be greeting first. Some fellows would insist on putting the jacket on her, lighting her cigarettes or inviting her for a drink.

And she would daintily turn them down with a wink.

Some others were rather persistent and would not secede just because bewitching red lips commanded them to. They would lean against the stage, trying to find her face in the midst of cheering people and musicians rocking back and forth off and on stage.

“The usual?” The bartender greeted her the moment she came closer to the counter.

She flashed her smile, nodding. “Don’t forget the ice.”

The bartender was back to making other drinks while she lighted her cigarette. Music stopped playing as someone before the counter turned the radio on, increasing the volume. She merely batted her eyelashes, exhaling to create little gray clouds with her cigarette. It was typical—late news, a thing or two about the development of international relations focusing on the other side of the Bloc, finally finished with tips and tricks in case both Blocs started to throw nuclear warheads against each other from across the oceans.

She was still silent, her eyes dreamily gazed away. One could hardly guess what was reflected in those eyes, and it took even a few more to ever dare to ask.

She exuded beauty, every being of hers. A _mature_ beauty. If physical features could turn heads, anyone conversing with her could attest how witty and sharp she actually was. How she would regale her admirers with various talks—from current events, witty philosophical commentaries, and sometimes making imaginary Cocteau and Camus butt their heads in a conversation in which she enthralled her listeners with her entertaining takes in regards to the good news, the bad news, and better news.  

And then she would leave after flashing the same bold blood-red smile, retreating to the backstage or probably somewhere else, somewhere out of this world because by then her listeners would be too mesmerized to follow as they voluntarily drowned themselves in the universe she created—to join Cocteau and Camus butting their heads together, to gladly roping themselves with chains of words and sentences. To question whether a state of life itself was ever true, whether anything a human perceived through their visual sense was ever true, whether a truth was ever blunt, or concealed deep under layers of preludes.

Some would say she could get away murdering Cocteau and Camus at the same time. And if she were to establish herself as a new prophet in Semiotics, there would be a cult dedicated to her, for her words were a thorny rose—delivering what needed to be asked in a gentle manner as if one would hardly notice they were taken by a thorn.

She would kindly thank them before disappearing into the backstage, and those longing eyes made a solemn pact to be her faithful steed whenever she was scheduled to perform next.

* * *

 

“Who cares about abstract ideas like that? I tell you what—this world can save a lot of hassle by doing, which is what I’m about to do right now.”

She chuckled. This man was unlike any of her admirers so far. He had showered her praises, covered her drinks, yet at the same time he was not going to fall into her clutch by listening to her like a faithful, loyal devotee. He would return her serves with equally-intriguing smashes, which, while they were delivered flirtatiously to rival her suaveness, bit her in the heart.

“If Camus thought that life was void of meaning and humankind should just settle in the truth that there might not be a truth at all—that one’s mind died when one relies on outer sources to feel like they have accomplished something in their life, that their life would be meaningful that way—then tell me, did Camus pee and poop like the rest of us, and go to the doctor when he was unwell? Why did not he embrace the fact that a human is a curious creature, thus the endless journey of seeking the truth.”

“My, my. That is a provocative one,” she tilted her chin, exhaling upward to spare him from the gray clouds.

“No, dear. That is simply called being humane. A human that is not has stopped being one, no wonder he is lost.”

“You think Camus was lost.”

“Even a person who is confident of many things would still look around before crossing the street, dear,” he smirked. “And no, I could not care less if he was lost or found. But to think that one should just embrace the supposed inevitability of Void while being encouraged to only look within—now that’s _my_ version of absurd.”

“I did not know you were a man of intriguing… sharp words, Rennac,” she said. “But then again, if one only fills up one sink until it is full as it is what lies ahead of them, I will bet my chances that they miss other sinks of all shapes and designs needing to fill because—“

“—the water will spill and that person will only know one design?” the man grinned. “My dear charming Tethys! Should I say, it is you who is the truly artisan of words and wisdom here. Screw all the Camuses and Cocteaus. I know how the world works, yet I am not miserable.”

“Now now, you may as well stop that before you hurt yourself, my weasel,” her red lips curved again. “And I guess it’s time for me to…”

“Retreat. I know you,” Rennac grinned again. “Or is it because I butchered your beloved Camus?”

“How does one love the Absurd?”

“By acceptance.”

“How does one accept?”

“By submitting.”

“And how does one submit, Rennac?”

“I don’t know. Because I do not.”

“Is submitting a passive action or actually giving you a greater control because by the time you hand the rein completely you are dissolved that it will hard to tell apart since you and the universe… fate… whatever one may call it… are one and the same?”

“Hmmh. Tethys.”

“Next time then,” she winked. “Let me pay for the consolation drink.”

“I understand now,” Rennac muttered, tailing behind as she walked up to the counter.

“Understand what?” she chuckled.

“Submission as a mean to control. You just did.”

“You are imagining things, Rennac,” she blew a kiss at him. “Good night.”

* * *

 

“For you.”

“Thank you.”

She pursed her lips into a brilliant smile. The club’s doorman ushered her to the phone hanging near the flower pots—secluded enough to talk on the phone without being disturbed by the music and chatters from the dining area, yet not completely isolated from the crowd.

“Hello, lovely,” she purred on the phone. Her eyebrows frowned a bit before bursting into chuckles. “Come on, Chief. A little teasing will not kill you.”

“If it is you, it may.”

“Oh, Chief.  I can be gentle too, you know.”

“For this one, Tethys, you need to be,” said the reply from the other side. “So, how?”

“I haven’t been able to dig up anything interesting out of him, Chief, to be honest,” she pondered a bit before answering. “It’s like he is pretty much open with anything else but the moment I’d like to press further, there is this invisible barrier I bump into.”

“Did he say something… important? Anything?”

“Pawning goods to auction houses. Not sure if important,” Tethys responded again. “And flat-out telling me he forges famous jewelries, making replicas out of them. It does not sound that chivalrous of course, but hey, if one wants a Grand Duchess Vladimir tiara, then who am I to say who gets to be a princess and who does not?”

“That makes easy money, Tethys. You’ll just need to know who the buyers are.”

“Ah ah, Chief. You’re always blunt.”

“Yeah. One second it can be a dream girl who wants to be a princess. And another… say, Tethys, you read Conan Doyle, didn’t you?”

“The _White Company_ or the usual, Chief?”

There was a pause from the other side.

“… You read the _White Company_ , Tethys? To be perfectly honest, I was thinking of Isadora Klein.”

“I do, Chief. Why, you think wars belong only to men in armors and their killer weapons? If you pay attention closely you should have seen that our protagonist was driven to knighthood, leaving the godly path he initially set himself upon because of oppression. And why did his father initially send him out to be a friar? Because his family could no longer feed him.”

“You fancy pure young men like Sir Allayne?” the other person laughed heartily.

“No tricks and no buts, so a yes, Chief,” she chuckled back. “I’ll report to you as always.”

“… Say, Tethys, did you lose anything?”

“Virginity is a state of being, Chief. The pathetic ones with nobility complex made it a noun. And state of being differs depending on how you reflect on it.”

The laughter from the other side turned boisterous. “No, Tethys. Actual possession. You met him today.”

She fiddled with her purse, her hand digging through the little universe of the black clutch. “Mmm.”

“Tethys?”

“… My lipstick.”

“You sure?”

“Very much so, Chief.”

“I’ll get you the replacement. Blood-red of the same brand or something else?”

“Mmm. Jealous much, Chief?”

Another pause from another side.

“… Tethys, by the time you find it back, it might have been bugged.”

“You paused for…” she glanced at her watch, “a minute and thirty seconds.”

“Tethys.”

“I get it, Chief. Okay, that color of the same brand. You know.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Chief. It’s nice to be in control indeed.”

“Tethys?”

“… Ah, nothing. Our little suspected thief-smuggler-spy starts getting to me perhaps,” she giggled. “Do not overdo it, Chief. The whole network needs you.”

“I’m aware. They don’t call me the Desert Tiger for nothing. You should be the one treading carefully, Tethys. When Marisa is back from the field, I’ll send her to cover your track.”

“Understood. Bye, Chief.”

“I prefer a goodnight, Tethys. I don’t like how it sounds.”

“Of course. … Goodnight, dear Gerik.”

Third pause.

“… Tethys?”

“Oh, Chief. You are not embarrassed, aren’t you?” she purred for the last time before returning the phone to its place.

Treading the dining area, she generously spared more smiles here and there as men glanced at her with lifted champagne glasses. Some offered her to join in, and with the most mesmerizing sultry tone she ever mustered, she rejected them all, for the night had been exhausting, for dancing the pole required stamina, and she had to powder her face at the backstage.

The beauty hath spoken; thus dispersed the crowd.

Tethys opened the door to the backstage room especially reserved for her. She glanced around, heaving softly to convey her satisfaction that the room was left untouched, with everything was still on its state the moment she left it.

Powdering her face and slightly annoyed for having to use a different lipstick, she put on her expensive faux-fur mantle. After all, she loved animals. No ifs-no buts, no scheme, unlike humans.

Tethys opened her purse, dumping everything on the vanity table. Black, with caramel mantle? Heh.

She walked up to her closet. There was a daring fiery red clutch in one of the drawers, as she always made sure she would never be in a show without substitute clothing articles.

By the time she yanked the doors, three bodies tumbled, landing against the proud, carpeted cold tiles at her feet. She cupped her mouth, smiling at the mirror, mimicking the famous celebrity icon whose lips were red, contrasting to her light, sun ray-colored blond strands.

 _Men are easy,_ she chuckled, gathering passports and wallets out of the bodies’ suit pockets.

Each body bore a deep stiletto blade wound, thrust straight to the heart with a kiss mark of red-blood lipstick color.


End file.
